


Gethsemane

by KelpietheThundergod



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean-Centric, Episode: s13e18 Bring 'em Back Alive, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, episode coda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-25 04:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14371110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KelpietheThundergod/pseuds/KelpietheThundergod
Summary: There's that urge, to drink himself stupid. To lie on his bed in the dark, palms pressed into his eyes.Dean's shoulder throbs. He's turning pages with his left hand, looking for a tracking spell. For anything. Anything to make it okay that he's here, and not where he's needed.With the adrenaline gone, it's a sharp ache; spreading up to his jaw, into his fingertips. Cas asked to heal him. Dean shook his head and avoided Cas' eyes. Shook his head to Cas' frustrated, uncomprehending, “Dean.”It's the one thing he gets to say no to.Has to say no to.





	Gethsemane

 

 

_an ancient word_

_it knows my name, my shadow_

_it knows my name_

_it knows my name_

 

 

 

 

He should be freezing, but he's burning up. Another step, another. The snow is blinding. The fucking _too much_ snow. It shouldn't be here. He hates it. _Not fast enough._ Can't get enough air. _Not fast enough._ Fingers clenched around the strap of his bag. Heavy. Another step. Not _good_ enough.

>

Poisoned bullet. A little flashy, but it might as well be Dean's middle name.

If they can't save them because of this he will never—

“Good lad. Good lad.” Knees covered in black protective armor shuffling over the dirt. Stone grinding on stone.

Touching his skin, bare, _inside._

Dean digs his fingers into the ground; pain, looking for comfort. Finding none. The snow burns cold, it doesn't even melt.

>

One time Dean's in school, sitting in class, and they're reading this book. Told from a slave's perspective. He can't remember the name. Dean is the only one looking out the window instead of at his desk, empty hands folded in his lap, ignoring the teacher glaring at him. So he doesn't have any books—Sammy has books, and that's more important. Books make Sammy _happy_ , and that is even more important.

Dad is teaching Dean to save people. Doing good. So it's okay that Dean doesn't have—that he doesn't. That he won't. It's okay that he doesn't understand, that they wouldn't understand, that no one talks to him.

Some kid is reading a passage of the nameless book aloud, complaining about it. “This is stupid. She's saying she's good with being a slave, that she's grateful for her 'master' giving her food and stuff. That she wouldn't know how to live on her own anyway.” A snort, a head shake. “ Why would someone write this, no one would want to live this way.”

Other kids murmur their agreement. Paper rustles. There's confusion and disgust on their faces. Dean can't look at their faces.

_How would she know? How would she know if she's never known anything else?_

Dean puts a hand over his mouth, leaning on it. Bites the inside of his cheek, forgetting it's still sore. Winces. The teacher looks at him, eyes sharp, and says something. Cruel laughter follows, left and right. Dean takes his hand away and smirks for them to see. It tugs at his cheek, with pain.

>

There's that urge, to drink himself stupid. To lie on his bed in the dark, palms pressed into his eyes.

Dean's shoulder throbs. He's turning pages with his left hand, looking for a tracking spell. For _anything_. Anything to make it okay that he's here, and not where he's needed.

With the adrenaline gone, it's a sharp ache; spreading up to his jaw, into his fingertips. Cas asked to heal him. Dean shook his head and avoided Cas' eyes. Shook his head to Cas' frustrated, uncomprehending, _“Dean.”_

It's the one thing he gets to say no to.

 _Has_ to say no to.

They're sitting there too, Sam and Cas, checking the lore, checking the news. Dean guesses they're probably just humoring him.

Humoring him from a distance, a couple chairs down, giving him space.

He couldn't—can't—look at them. There's pity where there should be anger, and Dean can't deal with it.

They could be dying. They could be dying _right now_ , and there's _nothing_ —nothing. He can do.

The fucking words on the page make no sense. Dean's read that page three times. He wants to blame the exhaustion, the stupid low-key dyslexia he may or may not have, but that's not it. That's not it. His vision blurs, tears welling up. He bites his cheek, hard. They want him to rest, but he—no. No.

Sam and Cas are talking. Disagreeing, or not. They sound low, sad. Dean doesn't want them to be sad. They wouldn't be so sad if it had been Jack and Mary coming back instead of—instead.

Even with a blanket over his shoulders, Dean is cold. And hot. Hot-cold. Left-over poison, maybe. Probably. He wipes at his eyes, hopes they didn't see. Turns the page.

 _Whatever it takes_.

He shivers, and the pages, under his hand, shiver with him.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Mark 14: 32 And they went to a place which was called Gethsemane; and he said to his disciples, 'Sit here, while I pray.' 33 And he took with him Peter and James and John, and began to be greatly distressed and troubled. 34 And he said to them, 'My soul is very sorrowful, even to death; remain here, and watch.' 35 And going a little farther, he fell on the ground and prayed that, if it were possible, the hour might pass from him.
> 
> i'm not a native speaker and this wasn't beta read. if you find mistakes, please tell me!
> 
> not super sure about how this coda turned out - if you enjoyed it, please leave me a comment and let me know! or find me on tumblr at [cuddlemonsterdean](http://cuddlemonsterdean.tumblr.com/)


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